Starcraft: The Federation's Hero
by feifei
Summary: Decades after the conclusion of the Brood Wars Campaign, mankind once again separates into various factions. One of which, the Federation, is the most powerful and technologically advanced. But that alone will not save them from the real threat...


Chapter 01

-Federation Space Grid Sigma Twenty-seven

In the cold emptiness of space, a single Yamato Class Federation Destroyer slowly inched along, trailing behind an invisible wake of ionized particles and plasma. The FS 101, or the Bastilla as it was more commonly known as, was headed for a remote sector of Federation Space. Just over forty-eight hours ago, the Federation had lost all communications with a military outpost that was in that region of space. The sector was newly acquired territory that was thought to be untouched by the Terrans. Initial scans had revealed several mineral and vespene rich planets. The military outpost was stationed at the center of the sector to watch for intruders. The Federation was acquiring more space than their military could cover; it was almost expected that some of these outposts would fall. But no one in the mighty Federation would ever have conceived of seeing the day a _Federation_ outpost fell.

Vincent scoffed. Arrogance; it was the most reliable factor in human failure. Fate, as it seemed, held a grudge against humanity. As soon as man thought he triumphed, he would fall. Such was the case throughout the entire history of humanity. The Federation was undoubtedly a powerful Terran faction, but they were still humans, bound by fate's cruel design. Vincent thought back on his old history lessons; Emperor Mengsk had successfully united the Terran race under a single banner. However, the unity barely lasted a decade. Since then, the Terran race was once again split up into several powerful factions. The Federation was a relatively well-rounded faction when it first came about seventy-odd years ago. Now it stood as a leader in technological, biological, and militant achievement.

Vincent stared down at his left arm. It was trembling violently and sweat dripped from his nose. It had been nearly a week since he last injected a stim. Stims were made illegal at the dawn of the Federation; they caused massive brain damage and were obviously addictive. Even though they were banned, a number of scientists did research on the drug to see if they could successfully negate the malicious effects without compromising its capabilities. However, the project was scrapped ten years ago. Still, a number of underground drug runners got hold of a prototype stim and had since been reproducing them en masse. The drug did what it was supposed to and there was minimal brain damage or liver damage, but the drug was highly addictive. One dose was enough to get anyone hooked. Vincent scoffed and held his trembling hand. He was in withdrawal. Anyone entering a Federation starship for long durations required extensive screening. Vincent knew this and stopped taking stims so he could pass the screens. The drug washed out of the body quickly, so it was easy for Vincent to fool the screens. However, the screens involved an injection of nanites that helped his body's metabolic functions adjust to the temporal phase shifts during slipstream travel. If he had injected a stim while the nanites were still active, they would alert the medlabs and ship authorities. Vincent only wished there was something else he could do to keep his mind off of the pangs, but his patrol sortie wasn't until much later. All he could do at the moment was stare out the clear plastium alloy windows of his quarters. At least the myriad of stars kept his attention, even after so many years of staring at them. He smiled, thinking back on his childhood, but frowned as soon as his thoughts wandered to his more troubled memories. Shaking his head vigorously, Vincent attempted to shake the memories filling his mind out. Of all the memories he wanted to recall, the ones filling his head at the moment were the last ones he wanted.

Vincent growled and marched away from the window. Hastily putting on his jumpsuit, he quickly rushed out of his room. His eyes hurt as they adjusted to the stark contrast in lighting. In his room he liked to keep it dark-it relaxed him. He hurried down the corridors aimlessly, not caring where he ended up on the ship just as long as he could get the dreaded memories out of his mind. Officers and fellow shipmates greeted him as he rushed by, but Vincent didn't bother replying. After what seemed like an eternity of wandering, he found himself in the medlabs. The place was practically empty save for a few hovering drones that served both as security and janitors. He noticed one of the office booths was still brightly lit; but moreover, there was an absence of drones. Vincent didn't even think about the consequences and rushed in. He quickly checked to see that no one was around and faced the drug cabinets, rummaging through the bottles. Thiosulfaselium, pennecillian, parathyroglutoscine, corangium… Vincent whipped around and pulled out his M6 45 pistol, which he promptly pointed at an intruder.

"As if you're really going to shoot me. Put that thing down before you hurt someone-me especially." A young woman in a lab coat said firmly.

She moved right past Vincent as if he posed no threat at all. It was obvious she was irritated by his intrusion, but she hadn't shooed him away, yet. The woman was stunningly beautiful. She had long black hair that was tied into a knot which was held in place by a PDA stylus. She wore frameless glasses that hugged her pale, angelic face. Her clothes smoothly caressed her slender and curvaceous body.

Vincent kept his eyes glued on her as he lowered his pistol and holstered it. The woman, however, simply ignored him as she busily ran about her small office checking things.

"How long are you going to stand around there? I'm quite busy." The woman asked.

Vincent stalled, "Uh…"

The woman finally stopped in her tracks and looked at him with an emotionless face, awaiting his answer. The only problem was he had none. His head was completely empty at the moment.

"Typical. Every time I grace a man with my presence he just freezes," the woman whined, "Hello?"

Vincent finally noticed a small gold leaf insignia on her shirt. He snapped to attention.

"My apologies for the intrusion, ma'am. It won't happen again." Vincent barked.

The woman cocked her head, puzzled. She looked down at her chest and noticed the gold leaf herself. It finally struck her that she was of higher rank than he was. The major rolled her eyes and let out a small sigh.

"Let's forget the formalities-." She tried to say.

"I cannot do that, martial code three-one-." Vincent started to say.

"Shut up, that's an order. And forget the formalities, that's an order, too." The woman said rubbing her temple.

Vincent uneasily complied and put himself at ease. He let his hands at his sides, but his left hand started trembling. Vincent saw that the woman's eyes were focused on his hand; he immediately clasped his hands together behind his back. His heart skipped a beat and the woman just stared back at him with an ever more serious face.

"You're a stim addict." The woman said.

Vincent didn't respond.

"I don't know how the hell you got past the screens…" The woman said as she carefully looked about her office.

She noticed that several of her cabinets were open and a lot of stock bottles were misaligned. It was obvious he had been trying to find something to ease the withdrawal pangs. But it was also clear that he was intelligent; he was searching in the right cabinet. There was no real labeling or categorization of the drugs, but she knew the man had to have had an extensive knowledge of drugs to even look in the right direction. However, she wasn't the least bit impressed. The man broke into her office and attempted to _steal_ drugs. She contemplated whether or not she should report him. To do so would undoubtedly seal his fate and end his career in the Federation military. And by the looks of it, the military was all the man had going for him.

The woman shook her head and grabbed a hydrostatic injector and loaded it with a small vial of yellow liquid. She approached Vincent and held the injector to his neck. Vincent didn't move. Taking his lack of action as an approval, she roughly pressed the injector against his jugular vein. With a light hiss the yellow liquid emptied into Vincent's bloodstream. In an instant, he felt more relaxed, his pangs died away, and his left hand stopped trembling.

"I gave you a small dose of morphine. It won't last forever, but it should help." She said, "By the way, my name is Karen Harper."

"Lieutenant Vincent Ra-," Vincent paused, "Grey. Vincent Grey."

Karen eyed him suspiciously and read the nametag on his jumpsuit. Sure enough, his name was Vincent Grey. Vincent blinked hard a few times; the morphine was getting to him.

"So what brings you to medlabs?" Karen asked as she started cleaning up, "Other than stealing my drugs."

"I couldn't sleep. I just wandered around until I came here. I saw that there weren't any drones here so I thought I could… take something to calm me down." Vincent said cautiously.

"And alas you did." Karen said, looking at the watch built into the sleeve of her lab coat, "Holy smokes. It's three in the morning."

Karen took off her glasses, set them on her desk, threw off her lab coat, and removed the stylus holding her knot of hair together. Instantly, long, flowing black hair cascaded down her back as she slowly shook her head. Vincent blushed a little. It was truly rare to see such a beautiful woman, let alone a beautiful woman with long hair. Federation Military regulation demanded that all persons in the military have short hair. But Karen was not military; she was a military MD, so the regulations excluded her. What puzzled Vincent was that she was obviously a lab runner; such people usually had short hair to avoid getting it caught on something or having substances accidentally splashing on it. Karen was a rare breed, indeed. Stunning beauty, intelligence, and an odd sense of caring-otherwise she wouldn't have given him the dose of morphine.

"Well my shift isn't for another few hours-I doubt I'll get any sleep. Would you like to accompany me to the mess hall for a cup of coffee?" Karen asked.

Vincent smiled, "Yes, ma'am."

Karen scowled at him.

"I mean: sure." Vincent said sheepishly.

Vincent enjoyed Karen's company. In the few hours they had spent together in the mess hall, he had learned much about her while she learned next to nothing about him. He really didn't have much to tell her but he was one hell of a listener. Karen's sympathy towards Vincent was founded by a love-hate relationship with her father, who was a stim addict. The man worked hard to support her but felt little to no love for her. Her father had died recently from his abuse of stims-massive organ failure. Vincent vaguely reminded Karen of her father. As for her mother, she had left her when she was a child in pursuit of a man with more credits. Karen was a completely different person than she was back in the medlabs. Here, she shed her cold, icy exterior to reveal a very sweet, caring, and funny person. Vincent assumed her cold attitude whenever she worked resulted from an odd mix of stress and the leftover competitive nature all med school students acquired.

The watch on Vincent's jumpsuit sleeve chimed. It was time for his patrol sortie and for once, he didn't want to go. As much as he enjoyed piloting a two-ton Wraith fighter through the cold vacuum of space at hypersonic speeds, he enjoyed Karen's company more.

"I have to go-patrol sortie." Vincent explained.

"I want you back in my office at 1000 hours for your next interval. I'm the only one authorized to treat you without… complication." Karen said.

Vincent could have sworn she just wanted to see him again. It was like being in puberty all over again. Vincent smiled and squelched the memories of his adolescent years. He was glad he could trust Karen. He normally didn't trust people so easily, but there was definitely something about Karen… then again it might just well have been his attraction to her. Maybe he _wanted_ to trust her because he wanted to get closer to her. Again, Vincent squelched his thoughts-they were becoming dangerously distracting.

Vincent continued to hurry down the Bastilla's corridors to the hangar bay. He was itching to get into his Wraith-it was one of few things that comforted him. He was a natural born pilot. He had quick reflexes, thought quickly, and usually outsmarted his adversaries, wingmen, and superiors. Vincent was the only one in the Federation Navy who had logged over eight hundred hours in the academy simulators. But _nothing_ beat the real thing. Entering the large hangar bay, he started walking. Large movers and drones constantly moved about, making it fatally dangerous for anyone to be running around, even if the place was huge. Vincent cracked a smile as soon as he saw his Wraith being tugged towards the launch area. It was a long, slender craft painted black. These new Wraiths were much sleeker, smaller, faster, and powerful than their Second Generation ancestors used back in the day of Emperor Mengsk. Federation Wraiths fashioned Hyperion class ion thrusters that lasted a few days without refit. They also featured light shielding systems-a courtesy of the Terran-Protoss alliance. Actualy, the alliance was rather biased. The Federation had moral values the Protoss favored and thus dealt with the Federation on a more intimate level than with other Terran factions. Another upgrade exclusive to Federation Wraiths were heavy repeating railguns-the main armament of the Wraiths. They fired an extremely rapid stream of depleted mineral scraps through a high powered magnetic rail. It did not matter what was used as ammo as long as the ammo used was a hard metal and narrow enough to fit through the railguns' barrels. By the time the metal pieces reached the end of the railgun barrels, they were slightly molten slugs that packed a wallop.

Vincent grinned as he ran his fingers across his Wraith's smooth hull. Nearby technicians did final checks on his craft and secured his flight gear on him. After a few minutes, Vincent was ready to get in. He hopped up on his Wraith's "wings" and jumped into the cockpit. He gave the technicians a thumbs-up as he turned on the craft's main systems. His wingmen chimed in; they were both ready to roll.

"There's nothing out there, might as well sleep for the next three hours, sir." Someone said over the comm.

Vincent looked around the hangar and spotted the two pilots who had just returned from their patrol sortie.

"Bah, you lack the spirit of a true pilot, sergeant." Vincent playfully replied.

"Sir, yes, sir." The pilot replied.

"All right, cut the chatter. Grey and Renolds, launch as soon as the signal's green." The hangar commander said.

A few moments later, the red lights outlining the hangar entrances turned green. Vincent and his wingman, Ensign Arthur Renolds, gunned their Wraith's throttle and shot out of the hangar.

Chapter 02

Nearly three hours had gone by since Vincent's sortie. Already, he could feel the effects of the morphine wearing off. His withdrawal pangs were coming back and his left hand trembled slightly. He kept a firm grip on his throttle in the hopes of blotting out the trembling by tensing his muscles. It worked-for a while. As the minutes passed by his headaches returned. Flight Comm no doubt was aware of the irregularities in his vitals and pestered him, but he insisted that he was fine-he would have to be until he could find Karen again. This time, he would ask for something a little more potent and advanced. Morphine was highly addictive, too. If Karen was not careful, she could get him hooked on morphine, thus, moving his addiction from one drug to another. But Vincent had confidence that Karen would give him something better. After all she was the chief medical officer on the Bastilla.

Karen. Just the thought of her made him feel better. But he quickly crushed those warm feelings. No matter how much he craved social contact with her, it would be dangerous to form any type of bond with her. They were soldiers, which meant either one of them could die in an instant. Emotional scarring was the last thing Vincent needed-and the last thing he would want Karen to face again.

The two of them had been through a lot. The details of their past circumstances were indeed very different, but Vincent could relate to Karen very well. Maybe that's why he felt an immediate attachment to her… or it was the utterly pubescent attraction he had for her gorgeous figure.

The computer chimed thrice. There was an unknown bogey entering the region. It was still a good distance away from the Bastilla, but the chances of a bogey entering the same region of space was less than coincidental. Vincent's Wraith did not have adequate sensors; all the Wraith's sensors could do was differentiating unknown, foe, and friend. The Bastilla, however, had state of the art sensors that had incredible range. All Wraith computers had a direct feed from a capitol ship's sensors, however. So, Vincent would be able to tell how many kilograms the enemy pilot weighed if he wanted to. But for now, he just wanted to know the pilot's purpose for being here-something the sensors couldn't do.

Following protocol, he did a quick scan of the surrounding area, and then gunned his throttle. He and his wingman closed in on the bogey, which was apparently a second generation Wraith… which also meant that this Wraith was either a derelict, which was impossible since this region of space had never been explored by Terrans, or a Zentrek. Vincent gritted his teeth as his confirmed his sensor readings with his own eyes. It was Zentrek for sure; the green bands on its wings and white skull on the fin was a clear and obvious sign of that.

The Zentrek were modern day pirates. They we not a true faction, but their forces rivaled those of lesser factions. These Terrans cared nothing for the strife of others, and plundered whenever they could. They were generally a minor threat to the more prominent factions, but right now, they could pose a great threat. The Bastilla was on its own, half a day from any reinforcements. But there was only one Zentrek wraith-most likely a scout.

"Bastilla, this is Eagle 13, has there been any narrow-band transmissions?" Vincent asked.

There was a slight pause.

"Eagle 13, this is the Bastilla, sensor logs indicate that there was an abnormal high frequency unidirectional transmission approximately twenty seconds before enemy contact. We assumed it was a neutrino-rich micrometeorite." The Bastilla responded.

Vincent cursed under his breath. He had no doubt in his mind that there were Zentrek battle cruisers on the way. Their battle cruisers were also second generation, but if they most likely had retrofitted black market Yamato Rail Cannons. The Bastilla's shields could only take so many hits before being completely vulnerable. Not even the ultra dense alloy hull would withstand a direct RC round. But aside from the battle cruisers, there would be a mess of wraiths to deal with also.

Keeping that in mind Vincent commed the Bastilla once more, "Bastilla, this is Eagle 13, requesting permission to blow this piece of trash to pieces-one less bogey to deal with when the storm hits."

"Eagle 13, permission granted. Additional wraith squads being sortied, standby for reinforcements. Be advised, Eagle 13, multiple slipstream event horizon detected on your 10." The Bastilla replied.

Vincent pulled hard to starboard. Just as he did, he caught a glimpse of several warped areas of space in the corner of his eye. The storm had come. His screen showed the positions of where the event horizons were. Vincent would have to be careful and avoid them-they were most likely the battle cruisers. Even though the Zentrek used outdated ships, they still had black market upgrades, including state of the art point defense systems. There was an energy spike from the Bastilla. The ship was charging up its RC cannon; the moment a Zentrek ship appeared, it would be blasted into oblivion. There was a sudden flash of fire just on top of Vincent's ship. His wingman had taken the liberty of destroying the Zentrek scout. A sharp pang ran through Vincent's body like a barbed snake slithering through his insides. At the same time, his vision blurred and his head felt as if it were being crushed by a vice.

"Dammit… not a good time!" Vincent growled through his gritted teeth.

The lieutenant grimaced through the pain and gunned his throttle. He hoped the adrenaline rush would help blot out the pain-it didn't. As unfortunate as it was, Vincent had other problems. Five Zentrek battle cruisers appeared from slipstream. The ships were extremely elongated and warped, but they instantly returned to their "normal" size and shape as soon as they cleared the slipstream event horizon. As soon as they did appear, the Bastilla fired its rail cannon. A blinding stream of ionized uranium slag burst from the magnetic capacitors of the ship and trailed towards the nearest Zentrek capitol ship. In brilliant explosion, one of the Zentrek ships was torn to flaming shreds. However, the welcome was responded by a volley of lower caliber RC rounds. The Bastilla's shields flared twice as two rounds exploded on the hull. The other two shots blindly missed. However advanced the Zentrek black market rail cannons were, nothing could match the sheer power and accuracy of the Bastilla's cannon.

The fight did not stop there. Immediately, the Zentrek ships spat out swarms of wraiths. Vincent and his wingmen were split up as they tried to dodge the oncoming wall of wraiths. It did not matter whether he aimed or not, so Vincent released the safeties on his railguns and squeezed the trigger on his flight stick. A rapid staccato of slugs flooded the area in front of Vincent's wraith, tearing whatever lay in front of him to shreds. Multiple explosions filled the cold dark of space as the half molten slugs ripped right into the enemy wraiths' fuel cells. The second generation wraiths used hydrogen cells that acted like miniature fusion reactors, but became violently unstable when the casing is punctured.

Vincent's shields flared as debris bounced off his wraith. There was nothing to worry about, though; his shield generator had nominal energy output. But if his reinforcements did not get to him soon, he would end up like the rest of the debris floating around him. The Bastilla carried forty wraiths-when there were only wraiths in the hangar. However, as regulation would have it, they had to have at least four dropships-which were just about double the size of wraiths. This meant that their total number of Federation wraiths was thirty-two. Against ninety-six enemy wraiths.

Vincent passed the wall of wraiths only to find himself in a maze of high powered laser bolts. The Zentrek battle cruisers had four heavy laser batteries each. A single bolt would take out his shields, if not his entire ship. Thus, Vincent weaved through the barrage frantically. Half of him relied on his skill, but the other half was relying on pure adrenaline. Once Vincent cleared the battle cruisers' line of fire, he cut his throttle and did a 180 loop, heading back towards the battle cruisers. Only this time, he stayed in the wake of the massive engines. Seizing the opportunity, Vincent armed his Excalibur missiles and locked onto one of the Zentrek battle cruiser's exhaust port. Two slender rods ejected from the belly of his wraith. They floated for a millisecond and blossomed stabilizer wings. In the next millisecond, their thrusters fired. Brilliant blue plasma propelled the rockets towards the two nacelles of a battle cruiser. Vincent barrel-rolled out of the blast radius just as the missiles impacted. Twin stars were born as the nacelles vanished into the miniature suns. The missiles and the ion exhaust had a synergistic effect that amplified the power of the explosion. Half of the battle cruiser remained, but was nothing more than a massive derelict.

The Zentrek wraiths broke off from their initial assault on the Bastilla and shot right for Vincent, who desperately tried to avoid the oncoming laser bolts. Unfortunately, there were just too many. His shields were battered by a relentless barrage of laser fire and withered down quickly. But the real problem was that the laser bolts were not just depleting the shields, but overloading the shield capacitors, which made shield regeneration practically impossible. There was no where to go, though. Straight ahead was a wall of trigger-happy wraiths, to his sides were battle cruisers with their laser batteries locked onto him, and to his rear was a flanking squadron of wraiths. This was not a good day for the lieutenant.

But he had a lucky break. The Bastilla's rail cannon had fired another round, destroying yet another Zentrek battle cruiser. This caught the Zentrek's attention. The wall of wraiths coming to "greet" Vincent broke off again and head straight for the Bastilla. However, Vincent was still well in the line of enemy fire. He dodged left and right and barrel rolled to avoid laser fire from the rear. And as his luck would have it, his wingman had broken off long ago to engage the wraiths heading for the Bastilla.

"Eagle-14, what in the bloody hell are you doing? I need backup, NOW!" Vincent roared into his comm.

Only static replied. Vincent could barely see through the debris and the wraiths in front of him, but he saw it as clearly as he saw his heads up display. Ensign Arthur Renolds' wraith ignited into a flaming fuselage that "fell" like a shooting star. A heavy laser bolt from the Zentrek battle cruiser took the ensign out. Vincent was truly on his own now. His reinforcements were too occupied with the advancing wave of enemy wraiths. Quickly glancing at his HUD, he saw that there were five enemy wraiths on his six, determined to take him out. They were obviously an elite squadron as they matched every maneuver Vincent had to offer. This aggravated the lieutenant. The chase had gone on long enough, he had to end it.

He put his wraith to the test. Gunning his throttle, he burst right into the ion trail of one of the enemy battle cruiser's nacelle. One stupid pilot pursued him right into the trail of superheated exhaust. The small craft was simply burned away into nothingness. Vincent's shields had gone down almost all the way from that last maneuver. His shield capacitors were shot; whatever he had left of his shields was it. The hard metal alloy of his wraith offered significant protection, but a few hits would end his career permanently. The death of the squad mate, however, had scattered the squadron in disarray. They scattered as they tried to avoid the nacelle. Vincent now had the perfect opportunity to mount an offensive. He looped around and opened fire on a wraith that was coming right at him. The molten slugs passed right through the craft as if it were made from butter. The ship did not explode, but Vincent was sure the craft was dead in space. As he shot passed the derelict wraith, he quickly caught a glimpse of why the wraith simply floated by. A railgun slug had melted right through the windshield and turned the pilot inside into crimson paste.

_Two down, three to go._

Vincent shot straight for one of the enemy wraiths and squeezed the trigger. A satisfyingly muffled staccato marked the positive contact between his rail slugs and the enemy. In a spectacular blast, the wraith disintegrated into a ball of fire and debris. But the victory dance would have to wait; another wraith closed in on his six and Vincent could not shake him. Another moment later, the enemy wraith's wingman returned to formation and dogged Vincent, also. His shields dwindled to a bare minimum as the enemy pelted him with laser bolts. Gritting his teeth in both frustration and pain, he looked around to find a means to get them off from his six. Between the whines of his thrusters and the pangs, Vincent finally came up with an idea.

Daringly, Vincent pulled hard to port and shot right for a Zentrek battle cruiser's forward laser batteries. He checked his radar to make sure his two pursuers were still on his tail. A quick shift in throttle made his thrusters burn brighter. The inertial dampeners barely had time to adjust as Vincent's fighter was once again pushed to its speed limit. His engines whined under the stress and the fuselage groaned from the strain. A quick glance at his radar showed that the Zentrek were still on him, trying to match his speed. Warning lights flickered on and off, blaring at him to decrease his velocity and to avoid collision with the laser battery. Vincent narrowed his eyes and held steady with his current course and speed. A timer appeared on his HUD, letting him know how long he had until impact. The timer counted down, and as he neared ever closer to the object, time seemed to slow. The only thing he could hear eventually was his own heart racing and the muffled thuds from the battle raging around him. Whether it was the adrenaline or the pain or both, Vincent's vision began to blur and his chest felt as if it were going to explode. But he gripped his flight stick and throttle even tighter, letting his gloves squeak under the stress. As the timer finally reached three seconds, Vincent shut off his main engines, pointed his nose up, and fired his maneuvering jets. His wraith rocked as his two pursuers shot past him.

His proximity alert screamed at him as his fighter drifted quickly towards the hull of the battle cruiser. Reactivating his main thrusters, he gunned his throttle and immediately got clear of the area. There was a low thud just as a red indicator on his radar vanished into the red polygon marking an enemy wraith and the Zentrek battle cruiser, respectively. The other red dot moved crazily about, no doubt to regain control of his ship. In that single daring maneuver, he had eliminated a pursuer, crippled the enemy battle cruiser, and bolstered his allies' chance of survival.

The throbbing in Vincent's ears began to die down and he finally noticed the frantic comm chatter booming from his earpiece. The battle was not going well for his allies. Already, five more friendly wraiths had gone down with no significant change in enemy fighter concentration. As for the Bastilla, she was under heavy fire and her shields were down to thirty percent. However, the blunt trauma from the enemy RC rounds had created major stress points and micro fractures in the hull of the forward compartments. Vincent went over all the data in his head as he headed for the raging battle between his allies and the Zentrek. This was not standard marauder tactics. The Zentrek were pirates, looters. It made no sense that they would attack the Bastilla's main sections. If they really were after loot, they would have tried to disable to Bastilla's propulsion, shields, and communication capabilities. However, they seemed to be wholly interested in the utter destruction of the ship. The Zentrek did not even try to communicate with them to discuss terms of surrender considering their superior numbers. It was odd indeed, but Vincent had little time to contemplate _why_ the Zentrek were trying to destroy them. The only thing that mattered at this point was the fact that they _were_ annihilating them.

With no green indicators on his scope, he opened fire, spewing a salvo of rail slugs. Vincent expertly avoided the spraying debris and explosive flares as he weaved right through the enemy ranks, destroying everything that happened to enter his scopes. In a matter of moments, Vincent had single handedly decimated a total of twelve enemy wraiths. There was no time for celebration, however. A single laser bolt impacted right where the shield emitter was located on his ship. Though that region of his ship was one of the more strongly shielded places, the bolt had taken his shields out completely. Another bolt impacted with his starboard wing. Sparks sprayed from his wing as Vincent desperately barrel rolled out of the way. With not even a second to shout out a curse, another bolt impacted with his main thruster. A massive ball of plasma engulfed the aft of his craft, the flames licking his cockpit window. His wraith tumbled through space leaving a trial of flame, debris, and exhaust. Warnings blared all around him as he struggled to make sense of everything. Luckily for Vincent, his wraith's onboard computer had instantly detected the irregular energy spike in his thruster and killed the hyperion reactor and rendered the reactants inert by the sudden cooling. So the normally fatal blast was dampened thanks to the marvel of Federation technology. As for Vincent, his cockpit was now filled with a thick, clear gel that foamed from several small openings in the control panels. The only drawback of the extremely shock absorbent gel was that it made it very difficult for Vincent to move. However, intent on surviving, he finally regained control of his ship. Conventional propulsion was out of the question and he only hoped that the aft maneuvering and emergency jets were still operational. According to his ship's diagnostic, they were, but the blast could have fused the openings shut, making it lethal to even try firing the jets. He had to do it; Vincent thumbed the controls for the jets. In the next moment, his vessel burst forward as the emergency jets exploded. They were single-use chemical jets that allowed for his ship to move forward by means of pure inertia. The left over energy from the batteries powered the rest of his systems, including the maneuvering jets. As his ship's batteries finally died, life support systems switched over to his powersuit. He had a day's worth of air in the powersuit, but that was more than enough. All he had to do was get to the Bastilla… right through the raging battle. Vincent hoped that the enemy would regard him as a drifting derelict-that was just about all he could do as he helplessly watched more of his fellow pilots burn to a cinder.

The Bastilla's shields continued to flair as the enemy battle cruiser's heavy lasers splashed against the hull. Heavy laser fire returned from the Bastilla, damaging the Zentrek ships. Vincent looked in awe as the Zentrek stood their ground taking the hits. This was odd indeed. If the Zentrek really wanted the Bastilla, they would have flanked her by now, but instead they just stayed where they had initially come out of slipstream, continuing to pelt the Bastilla with heavy lasers at the main hull. They wanted the Bastilla destroyed. It was obvious now that they weren't here to loot the Bastilla, but to prevent it from getting to the outpost. Had the Zentrek looted the outpost? If so, why were they trying so hard to prevent the Bastilla from getting there? Once the Zentrek looted a place, they packed up and left; they weren't known for lingering in one place for long. And the Zentrek had to have known that their slipstream drive was still recharging. The Bastilla would be going nowhere for the next few hours, which was more than enough time for any invader to get clear.

A sharp pang interrupted his thoughts. He was sure the withdrawal was now from both stims and the morphine Karen had given him. All he could do was grit his teeth and sit it out. Fire splashed around him as he drifted right back into the heart of the battle. Small debris pinged of his hull and windshield. Vincent closed his eyes as a body splattered against his windshield. That was the last thing he saw as he slipped into unconsciousness.

A sudden jolt woke him up. He had been out cold for a total of ten minutes, during which, he had drifted right towards where he needed to go: the Bastilla's hangar. Snapping to attention, Vincent thumbed the controls on his dimly lit control panel. His maneuvering thrusters fired one at a time, aligning his flight path. He would have to make a crash landing; he was moving too fast and his reverse maneuvering thrusters weren't responding. Vincent leaned forward as buffering gel slid around him to fill the gap. As long as the gel smothered him, he had little to worry about. Even if he crashed at a higher speed, the gel would have kept him nice and safe. A laser turret turned and aimed right for him. Vincent's hair stood on edge; he forgot to activate his SOS beacon. Without the beacon, the Bastilla had registered his ship as a derelict about to cause hull damage. Vincent quickly thumbed the beacon and kept his eyes on the barrel of the turret. A full three seconds of terror passed by before the turret finally moved on to another target. Vincent sighed heavily into his helmet. He knew if the powersuit was not insulating him, he would have been drenched in sweat.

Moments, later his ship slammed into the floor of the hangar, spewing sparks and flame. It took a while for his wraith to stop skidding across the ground. Once he stopped, Vincent pressed the button for the hatch release. Unfortunately, the blast that had knocked him out of commission had fused the hatch to the fuselage. Vincent had no choice but the reach for his pistol and shoot out the glass. The glass was designed to take heavy impacts from the outside, but allowed pilots to shoot it out from the inside just in case pilots happened to get stuck. Vincent aimed for three circles embossed onto the glass. The bullets punctured the glass, leaving three distinct holes. The gel immediately began to evaporate; the catalysts mixed into the gel activated once enough oxygen was present allowing for a rapid decomposition. Vincent punched the rest of the glass out. The three embossed circles represented the stress points of the windshield. Once a pilot shot through these holes, the glass was then weak enough to punch through. Vincent scrambled out of his cockpit, rolled down the port wing and came to a stop on the ground.

"What the hell happened to you?" A technician asked.

Vincent took off his helmet and replied, "Not the right time to ask. Is she salvageable?"

The technician looked at Vincent in a funny way, "Are you kidding? I'm surprised this thing didn't fall apart when you hit the deck."

Vincent frowned, his career-long partner had "died." A bright flashed flared from the hangar entrance as red warning lights blared overhead. The Bastilla's shields were gone.

(More story being thought up/written… I think…)


End file.
